The Red
by exclamation mark
Summary: The lies of her daily life a carefully constructed façade. My love for her unknown, my care for her undefinable. There's nothing I can do as I watch her struggle, as I watch her fade. AH, O/S CxEs


_****_**The Red**

_**Just a little something I was playing with the other day. In this one shot Carlisle is a restaurant/bar owner, not a doctor. All human too. :) Enjoy.**_

_**Carlisle's POV**_

She began to close up the bar in her stained and dampened uniform, pretending not to be exhausted. Always pretending. Alcohol and soap suds soaked through her tight tuxedo shirt. Her hair was still seamlessly pulled back, except for a few curls that escaped from the restraining bun. She smiled at the customers, taking their tips along with their crude and flirtatious remarks. Ringing them up, wiping the bar, she was always aware of the alcohol intake of each of her patrons, making sure to call a cab if needed. Always kind. Always thoughtful.

Throughout the night my mind wandered, as it often did, to the moment I met her. It was the week before our grand opening. I was frantically trying to figure out how I was going to handle running a restaurant. At the time, my life was a blur of menu selection, hiring staff, and purchasing supplies. I was hardly able to even consider all the last minute touches. Everything that could go wrong, did. As I sat at the bar covered with glasses and various types of liquors, trying to decide between the deep burnt red or crisp white linens, she walked in. She was a vibrant young girl, no older than 20 or 21, I thought.

"Red, definitely the red." She said matter -of -factly. I looked at this girl strangely. She didn't introduce herself, she didn't even say hi. I could tell from the way she held herself, the way she spoke, that she was a force to be reckoned with. I needed a bartender, she needed a job. I hired her on the spot. From that first moment, she held my attention and never let go.

Over the years I watched her. I began to learn. I knew her warmth was an illusion, that she hid the true pain she dealt with every day. I sipped my cognac, letting the warmth of the sweet alcohol coat my throat, making my insides feel alive. Counting out the money from the night, I couldn't help myself from continuously glancing in her direction. The kitchen had closed down about an hour ago. The only people left in my small home away from home were the dishwashers and her. She finished drying her glasses, stacking them in the cabinets below the bar and then started to close out her drawer. I knew what she'd be going home to tonight. Or at least I thought I knew. Like every night, I wished I could stop her. Like every night I wondered if this would be her last. If I'd never get to see her again. Why did she go back? Night after night. What kept her there?

I didn't understand and I never thought I would. I glanced at her once more. Her eyes met mine and she smiled softly, blowing a curling reddish wisp out of her line of vision. I took another sip of my drink, the burn warming me through and through.

"Carlisle, I'm gonna head out. Here's my ticket and the rest of the cash." The brief feather touch of her fingers sent a shiver up my arm. My skin yearning for more contact. Her eyes met mine and for a moment I wondered if she felt the same charge. I didn't want her to go, not yet.

"Esme, stay. Have a drink with me. How about some coffee or a glass of wine?" Her eyes shifted slightly. Not enough for anyone to notice. But me, I noticed. I always noticed.

"I can't. Last time," she looked uncomfortable or maybe ashamed, I wasn't sure, "You know I can't. I told you I have to get home before two and it's already almost one."

"Right, of course." I wanted to stop her. I wanted to ask her, no, beg her not to go. I wanted to keep her. But I knew better, I knew she wouldn't listen.

She walked out the door swiftly, locking it from the other side. I stared at her retreating figure long after she had left. I hoped she'd be alright tonight. I hoped he wouldn't touch her, or worse. I finished counting out the money and gulped the last of the delicious golden liquor before heading upstairs for the night. Filled with worry, I was sure I wouldn't be able to get any sleep, but as I fell into my thick, soft sheets I passed out immediately, only to wake the next day still in my clothes.

I got up early and began to prep my restaurant. The cleaning crew would be here shortly to make sure the place was spotless. I knew tonight would be busy. As I reviewed the reservation log I realized we were overbooked yet again. My success always surprised me, I never thought I'd ever get used to it. And I certainly never planned to be so busy when I opened my small restaurant seven years earlier. I spent the late morning and early afternoon going through inventory, revising the budget, and spending some time arguing with our arrogant and overzealous, yet talented chef. I loved Jasper, but he was a pain in the ass to say the least.

At four o'clock the servers, bus boys, pantry cooks, and sioux chefs arrived. Esme should be here by now. Already I was concerned. Of course I was. I was always concerned. She was never late, unless…. My thoughts were interrupted by the constant needs of the staff. The bus boys wanted to know how to set up the tables for the night. The servers needed to know what station they were assigned. Later, the hostesses arrived, complaining once again about being overbooked and having to stay late.

I tried to stay focused, but my thoughts kept wandering. I wanted to call her, but was worried that would do more harm than good. Right before opening, I decided to put James behind the bar. He was an aspiring chef, currently one of our pantry cooks. Great guy, but needed to work on getting along with others. The kitchen had to work as a team, one unit. He didn't really get that, not sure if he ever would. He used to bartend though, and would do fine behind the bar for tonight. After our team meeting, I went to the back office to call Esme. I could wait no longer. She had been on my mind all day and at this point I was ready to call the hospitals. I was almost sick with worry. I just had a strange feeling. But with Esme those feelings seemed to happen more and more often. Later that night, I would find out I wasn't too far off the mark.

Her phone rang and rang, but no one picked up. The night was busy. The flow of customers was almost more than we could handle. Almost. The rush of the busiest time of the night kept my mind off of Esme. I was running around the restaurant, from the kitchen to the bar, to the tables. Always a fire to put out, always keeping my cool. At midnight the last customers left. It had been a lucrative evening. I counted out the cash, closing out the registers, reconciling our transactions, the whole time my mind in a terrible state of worry and stress.

I knew something had happened. I knew it was bad. She'd never gone missing for the entire night. I prayed she wasn't hurt too badly or even worse, dead. As soon as I closed up shop I began making the phone calls. I called every hospital in the downtown area. I called the police station. I even called my lawyer. Since I was not a family member no one would give me any information. No one would help me. My lawyer was simply out of the office at one in the morning, so I left a message requesting he call me back.

I went behind the bar and grabbed a bottle of the Chateau la Fete Rothschild, one of our favorite reds. There was nothing I could do tonight. I knew it would be a bad idea if I showed up at her house. I gulped down a glass, chastising myself for not savoring such a delicious bottle of wine, but enjoying the buzz nonetheless. My anxiety and concern for my Esme escalated. I'll never forget the night her dark secret began to unravel. The night my worry began to overtake me. I always cared for her. She was a beautiful girl. However, she was married to her high school sweetheart, true love I thought, something I would never intervene.

We'd always enjoyed each other's company, Esme and I, but I thought it meant more to me than to her. And maybe, just maybe that was true. However, there had been moments. Moments like that night about a year ago. It was during one of our slower months, right before the holiday season began. The restaurant had to close early because there were no patrons. The rain was pounding outside and the air was cold. But the bar was open late. An older couple stayed through the night. Not needing much attention, just a cozy bar and a starlit sky. Esme and I kept each other's company while we let the couple enjoy their romantic night out. I looked over at the couple and knew they weren't planning on leaving anytime soon, which was fine with me. Honestly it was moments like this that made me feel proud of following my dream. I've wanted to open my own restaurant for as long as I could remember. Gourmet food, great drinks, a warm and elegant atmosphere with an open sky was my vision. I designed everything in the restaurant myself. My blood, sweat, and tears went into every drop of paint, every wooden slat on the floor, every nail holding the various pieces of art that hung on the wall. So to see others enjoying my place so much warmed my heart. The couple sat at one of the windows, the entire back wall nothing but thick glass so the patrons could enjoy the beautiful view of the lake reflecting an open sky.

"Esme, we're going to be here a while," I smiled at her as I grabbed a seat at the far end of the bar.

"I can see that," She returned my smile, looking vibrant and younger than when she entered the restaurant earlier this afternoon. She always came alive in this place. Or maybe that was just my skewed point of view.

"If you need to go for the night, I understand. I can man the bar."

"Absolutely not! This is my bar." She responded with a smirk and a mischievous look in her eyes. "What can I get for you Mr. Cullen?"

"Mr. Cullen? Aren't we being professional?" She smiled at me again, I could look at that smile all day if she'd let me. "I would like a drink, if you'll share one with me."

She looked at me warily, until I reminded her that she takes a cab home anyway. I insisted she pick anything she wanted behind the bar.

"Anything?" She teased.

"Yes, Esme, anything. Just don't break the bank. Let's leave the Louis XII for the customers."

"Aww, don't I deserve a 125 dollar shot boss?"

"You deserve more, but not tonight." I responded lightheartedly. Her soft laughter held me in a perfect rapture. I wondered did she have any idea how much I missed her laugh when she wasn't around?

She poured us both a glass of the La Fete Rothschild and we slid easily into our nightly banter. Her eyes never left mine as we sipped our wine enjoying the velvety liquid and easy conversation. She was such a colorful spirit and when she talked about a topic that inspired her she became a passionate fire pit of excitement. You couldn't help but be enraptured by her presence, by her words.

She checked on the couple near the window, ensuring they didn't need anything else and telling them to enjoy the ambiance and stay as long as they'd like. I watched them as they stared listlessly into each other's eyes.

"One day I hope to find that." She blurted.

I looked at her strangely. She rarely talked about her husband, but I knew they had been together since high school. He had been in here a few times and although I was jealous of what he had, he was an extremely personable and classy fellow. Or so I thought. He looked as if he hung on her every word. I always imagined her in love. With her spirit and liveliness, how could she not be?

"I thought…" I started.

"I mean. It's not that." She stammered before she met my eyes. "Things aren't always what they seem, Carlisle."

The wine was getting to me and I felt blunt and curious. Even though it was wrong, I even felt hopeful. "Well, how are things then?"

She looked at me with pained eyes and began cleaning the bar. She was avoiding, I knew it, she knew it.

"Esme…" I began.

"Carlisle, I-"

That was the first time I realized something was wrong. Esme and I had become close the past few years. We closed the restaurant every night together and we got along very well. She was more than just the bartender at my restaurant. She was my closest friend. I knew of her dreams to be a trained chef and she knew of the lonely nights I spent above the restaurant. My dream, opening my own place, had come true, but I had no one to share it with.

Just then, the couple came up to the bar ready to close out their tab. Esme put her face on and wished them a great night, asking them to come again. I watched her and realized then her appearance was a façade. She looked at me as they walked out the front door and I saw the ache in her eyes.

"I'll lock up after them and then clean up." She began to walk around the bar.

"No, sit down." I grabbed the second wine bottle and poured the remnants of the lush red juice in each of our glasses.

"Carlisle, I shouldn't."

"Sit." I looked at her soft eyes and amended, "please."

She complied and grabbed a stool near me at the edge of the bar. She hesitatingly took a sip of her wine,her lips beginning to show the red taint of the alcohol.

"Esme, you've worked here for a while. I consider you a good friend of mine, more than that even. You know you can tell me anything, right?"

Once again her eyes shifted downward. After a pause she sighed but never responded.

"What do you mean things aren't always what they seem?" I looked at her imploringly, trying to meet her eyes to no avail. She dodged me like an expert.

"I shouldn't have said anything," she mumbled.

"What do you mean, things aren't always what they seem, Esme?"

Finally, she looked up at me. I hoped she saw the concern in my eyes. I had nothing but care for this girl, to me she was beyond perfect and even though it wasn't really my place to tell her, she should know that.

She took a deep breath and began," You know I got married young, right?" I nodded. "Well the truth of the story is I was pregnant and getting married was the right thing to do at the time. Or so I thought." I tried to compose myself. I didn't want to look shocked or judgmental, not that it mattered anyway. Esme wouldn't even look at me. In fact, she wasn't even in the room. She was in another time, another place.

"I-I lost the baby. Things aren't always what they seem or what I make them out to be, Carlisle." She stared at me now, trying to send me a message. Trying to say with her eyes what she couldn't with her voice. I stood up and gave her a hug, rubbing her back as she sobbed into my shoulder. I wasn't sure of the details. I wasn't sure of the circumstances, but I knew Esme was struggling through something difficult. Later I would find out it was much more difficult than she let on.

The next day, Esme came to work with a broken arm. She said she slipped on the ice on her way up to her driveway last night. Normally, it wouldn't have been a big surprise. Esme was always clumsy, even behind the bar. She was known for her repeated trips to the hospital, her broken bones and the myriad of black and blue marks scattered over her smooth skin. Except that afternoon as she told her story of her trek up the icy driveway, she gave me a look. I knew she was lying. I knew this was pretend. And to be honest, I feared the truth. That night she manned the bar alone, with one hand. She was slow, but she made more tips than any night before. As the chefs cooked, the waiters served, and Esme entertained, I sat with worry, I thought of the worst. How many times had Esme come to work damaged? Was he fucking hurting her? Is that what she was eluding to last night?

She never admitted the truth. She avoided the topic and even threatened to quit if I wouldn't stop asking her about her personal life. All she said was she needed be home before two in the morning every night or she could no longer work at the bar. The past twelve months, I wanted to do something, anything, but I didn't know what to do without losing her for good. I tried to be a good listener, every moment I could, I made an effort to show her I was there for her. I constantly complimented her. She didn't have to settle and I wanted her to know that. Week after week she'd come to work, her colorful demeanor fading, her spirit diminishing. Sometimes she'd be bruised, another broken arm or rib, always with an excuse and a laugh about her clumsiness, but I knew. I knew the truth. I could see through her pretenses.

As I finished my second glass of wine, my panic began to rise again. Dammit. I need to do something. If I saw her again, I would refuse to let her go back to him. No matter what, I wouldn't let her! IF I saw her again. The thought chilled me to the bone, until I heard a light knock on the glass door. I looked up and saw the shadow of the woman I loved. Running to the doorway, I entered the code to disarm the alarm and unlocked the bolts. She was wet and shivering, her head was down and her bright, wavy hair was covering most of her face.

"Esme!" I screamed and gently I pulled her inside. "Esme, where have you been all night?" My voice was an octave or two louder than I meant it to be and I could tell I was scaring her. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, Are you ok? I'm so glad you're ok."

As she looked up to meet my eyes I saw her lip was broken. The side of her head blackened by the busted blood vessels of a bruise. "My God, Esme, are you ok?"

She lifted her head high and her nostrils flared. "I shot him, Carlisle." The only evidence of her fear shown through her trembling lip and quavering voice. "I couldn't take it any… anymore. He's, he is in jail or at the hospital in custody. I don't know, but I can't Carlisle. I can't." She lost it. Breaking down in a flood of tears and whimpers.

"Shh, shh" I tried to comfort her, I couldn't restrain the warm tears from falling from my own eyes. I should have done something about this earlier, I just didn't know what to do. I tried to console her, until her sobs finally quieted. She was exhausted emotionally and physically. I offered her a warm glass of cognac to relax her nerves which she welcomed.

"You shot him?" I asked her in disbelief. Things were so much worse than I imagined.

She looked at me and nodded her assent.

I looked at her damaged face, brushing back her soft hair. "What happened, Esme?"

After a few sips she finally spoke again, but didn't answer my question. "Carlisle, I can't go back home. I…"-

"Please, Esme, just stay here. I have the space upstairs. Please?" She met my eyes, looking for pity, looking for doubt, but found none. Finally she nodded.

The next day the restaurant was closed as we usually were on Mondays. Esme slept most of the morning as I tried to busy myself with work. Finally, at around two in the afternoon I brought her some soup with fresh baked bread and warm tea. She sat up in bed, still looking a mess, and ate hungrily. I saw the bruising on the right side of her head had gotten worse. The dark purple ran from her temple down to her cheekbone. Her lip was swollen and seeing her hurt physically made me want to scream in agony. Unconsciously, I ran the tip of my finger from the top of her hairline down to her ear. She looked up at me as she took another bite of her bread, quickly chewing and then swallowed.

"I'm going to be ok." I watched her closely. Not seeing her scars, but seeing the fire come back to her eyes. Her passion and strength returning as she held her resolve. "I'm going to be ok, Carlisle."

I smiled softly as I responded, "Yes, yes you are."


End file.
